


The Way of the Soul

by ThisisVenereVeritas



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 21:01:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7861003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisisVenereVeritas/pseuds/ThisisVenereVeritas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The end of the plague is officiated and Dunwall enters a temporary golden age, celebrating peace and prosperity. While most of the Whalers drink and play, Thomas takes some time away to check on his master.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way of the Soul

Three Whalers carrying rolls soaked in broth ran across the metal pathway, teasing a pack of wolfhounds chasing after them. Nobody was wearing their masks and it was apparent by the red heat staining their cheeks, forehead and ears, the amount of alcohol they’d consumed prior to this merry-making. Someone stumbled over his footing, and it was only because there were other Whalers traversing through the area that no accident occurred.

Thomas sat spread legged, on top of one of the many buildings in the center of the Flooded District. He was prepared to comment on the inappropriate behavior, but he knew any attempt to do so would only put him into a conflict with the others. And what good would it do? It wasn’t even midday yet, and he already had more than his fair share of food and drink. With the way things were occurring, he figured by nightfall he’d be just as drunk as everyone else.

People talked about the end of the plague for a while now, but it wasn’t until the child empress made an official declaration did the country fall into a state of constant celebration. It was an organized fugue, where instead of anarchy there was bliss, people coming together and expressing gratitude towards each other. For the last three days there were no requests for assassinations, no orders from Daud to prepare for a gruesome, potentially life-threatening assignment. No missions, no chores set on the younger recruits, or tasks performed by their superiors. No threats of demotion or punishments for acting like fools. There were the few senior members who would toss a verbal warning or two, but like Thomas none were entirely free of sin. Even Daud had been caught amongst the Whalers, sharing a few swigs of something they stole from the nearby breweries.

Thomas found that strangest of all. Instead of chastising the men for acting out of order, Daud was traversing through the more inhabited parts of the district, tossing blankets on those who were lost in their stupors, and guiding the more sober ones closer to central Rudshore. He was lighting up cigars in the middle of the night, waiting for reports from Rulfio, getting a headcount of those who were still around, and estimating those who might have taken off to celebrate as regular civilians. Daud wasn’t known for being sociable, but he was playing cards and winning bets, and Thomas heard rumors that he even listened in and responded positively to a few of Coleman’s jokes.  

He opened one of his satchels and pulled out a small bottle he procured the night before. Tyvian Whiskey. Really strong stuff, mixed with some cinnamon to give it a spicy, flavorful bite. Thomas never tried it before. He picked up the bottle for its alluring amber color. When he opened the top and took a whiff of the contents he thought of his master.

Thomas stood up and readjusted himself before looking over in the direction of Daud’s hideout, just several blocks away. _When in Tyvia_ , he thought just before summoning the power of his transversal.

* * *

He found Marco and Rapha just outside the chamber, in the hallway,  huddled together under a blanket. Rapha’s head rested on Marco’s shoulder, her hair a dark tousled mess. The bottles and plates around them, along with the messy stack of cards and sheet of paper depicting various scores, suggested that there were other intoxicated members not too far. Unwilling to risk this already rare opportunity, Thomas chose to let them be.

He didn’t bother knocking. No reason to be overly polite today, not after three days of watching his subordinates run around and engage in playful activity.

“Master Daud?” Thomas held the neck of the bottle tight as he walked across the room. He heard the rattle of coins being tossed into something, and then the click of a lock. Admittedly worried that he was intruding on a private matter, Thomas kept his eyes downward, patiently waiting for Daud to appear before him.

Daud manifested in front of him. The sight of his presence brought Thomas immediately to attention. Daud gave a slight wave of his hand, putting Thomas at ease.

“Thomas,” Daud greeted while he adjusted his gloves into place. “Is something the matter?”

“I wanted to visit, see how you were faring during all this commotion,” Thomas replied. He lifted the bottle to Daud. “And perhaps offer you a gift I discovered during last night’s excursion.”

Daud took the bottle from him, eyeing the dark liquid with interest. “ _Discovered_?” he asked, and Thomas could detect an almost playful sarcasm in his low voice. “Or snatched from some celebrating everyman?”

Thomas shrugged, a small smile spreading alongside his raising shoulders. “Can you imagine us procuring our supplies any other way?”

“Have you seen the people of Dunwall lately?” Daud asked. His voice lacked the cruelty or harshness that usually accompanied it. Thomas made careful glances around the room, looking to see if his master had already taken to drinking. “Everyone’s acting like we’ve entered some golden age. People are handing out food and drink to men who, half a year prior to this, would have raised a knife at them.”

“People are getting together,” Thomas replied. Daud nodded as he continued to inspect the make of the alcohol. Thomas watched a smile form at the ends of his master’s lip. The rare sight excited him. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m glad we’ve had no work as of recent.”

“All temporary,” Daud said as he walked towards the desk. He rummaged through the contents, taking out two tumbler glasses. He opened the bottle and poured a liberal amount in the first. “Once people have finished celebrating, they’ll remember the social order.”

“Perhaps,” Thomas admitted. He wrinkled his nose. “But until then, why not partake in the celebration?”

“I’m surprised, Thomas,” Daud said. “Pleased, but surprised nonetheless.”

A bit flattered by his master’s response, Thomas swallowed and watched as Daud poured the remaining half of the bottle into the second glass. “I guess you could say all this commotion is contagious,” he managed to say. “After watching the men the past two days I cannot help but want to join in. See what comes of it.”

Daud closed the bottle with its cork and placed it on the table, between the two glasses. Thomas suddenly noticed both tumblers shared the same, large amount of whiskey. “I suppose this is where I tell you, ‘better late than never’?” his master commented.

Thomas fought against a nervous chuckle. “Only if you want to, Master Daud.”

Daud took the glass closest to him and offered it Thomas. “Time is short, Thomas.”

Thomas stared at Daud’s  relaxed expression, then at the tumbler and the dark whiskey held in it. “What do you mean?” he asked.  

“Just that,” Daud answered, and then gave the glass a light shake. “There isn’t much time left for celebrating. We’ll have a little toast. A special one.”

The inviting smile on his master’s face left Thomas a little uneasy. His stomach was heavy, his chest tight, but his head was lifting further into the clouds. “Alright,” he said. Thomas took the glass from Daud and raised it slightly. “To what then?”

Daud leaned against the desk and took his glass. “Whatever you want. Your greatest desire, if you wish,” he said. “But in order for it to work, you’ll have to finish your drink in one go, without spilling.”

Thomas fought a grin. It was so unlike his master to be so… playful? He nearly shook his head at the very idea, it was that foreign to him. But Daud didn’t hold back, and instead lifted his glass up, looking ready to down the entire glass at the given word. Thomas mustered the courage to egg the older man on. “Sounds fun,” he commented.

The room was hotter now. And smaller. Thomas was increasingly aware of the broken ceiling, and of the potential eyes peeking through the gaps and witnessing this spectacular moment. How many of the Whalers were watching in on this, and did any of them care? Any other day of the year and Thomas would have been embarrassed to be caught in such a situation.

And just when it already seemed so unbelievable, Daud raised the stakes higher. “And you’ll be taking your drink with my glass, and I’ll take my drink with yours,” he added, the ends of his mouth lifting just enough to hint at his amusement.  “In order for this to work, it’ll require that we both finish the drinks. Hesitation from one side will result in spilling from the other.” Daud lifted himself off from the desk and approached Thomas, the glass steadily raised up to the younger man’s face. “Do you understand?”

“Don’t spill.” Thomas raised his glass to Daud. “That doesn’t seem difficult.”

“You’re confident,” Daud stated. Thomas thought  he was being a little too cocky, but Daud looked impressed. Thomas wondered if it would be better off to show that side of him more often, or if this was nothing more than a result of his master drinking and allowing this kind of behavior to take place at all.

“I’ve no reason not to be,” Thomas said.

Daud raised a brow. That was all, and Thomas was a little disappointed that nothing else came after it; a chuckle, a laugh or the start of another rare smile.

The fantasy pushed Thomas into tipping his glass and letting it come so close to the older man’s lips. “Let’s do this, Daud.”

“Watch it,” Daud warned, using his free hand to point down to his coat. “I just cleaned this.”   
  
Thomas noticed right away that the remark was free of anything that resembled an actual threat. His mind tinkered with that very thought, played with it and allowed himself to grow more excited. “Alright. Whenever you’re ready then.” 

Both men elevated their glassed to the other’s mouth. The heat from Daud’s arm brushed against the surface of Thomas’ sleeve. It was a warm reminder of how close they were. How intimate. Arms crossed. Thomas had never been so close to his master. Oh, there were the missions, the cold afternoons spent huddled together while they observed their prey in silence, the nights were they stood close at the table, rereading several weeks of collected intel, preparing for the final outing. Thomas carried memories of grabbing his master’s hand, of Daud knocking him down and picking him right back, Daud staring at his naked chest before dipping a needle into it, Daud stitching him, Daud waking him up. Their clothed arms crossing one another should have hardly mattered, but it was all Thomas could think about as he stared into the glass Daud held up to him. His nose flared and he smelled the spices in the whiskey, so warm and filled with flavor it tickled him, made him smile and so grateful for this moment. Daud warned him that it would all end soon. Right now Thomas wanted this feeling to last forever.

“Cheers,” Daud said, too quickly for Thomas to register. The glass tilted further and the whiskey poured downward into Thomas’ unsuspecting mouth. He was not prepared for it. Daud must have known, since Thomas waited a second before dipping his glass, but that didn't seem to warrant him from lifting the tumbler away. If anything, Thomas was sure he was getting more than a few gulps worth of whiskey rushing into his face. He swallowed big, felt the pain and burn from the cinnamon as his throat struggled to managed the first gulp, and then quickly attempted a second, but couldn't bring himself to try for a third. He spat up some of the whiskey and stumbled back. Daud’s other hand took the glass from Thomas as he bent forward, coughing and letting the cool air fight back the heat of the strong flavors. 

One of the glasses hit the table. Thomas could tell by the sound that it was empty. Daud finished his drink. Thomas wiped his face and let his arm cover the blush he knew he was developing. He looked up and saw Daud staring at him, looking incredibly amused. “Not too difficult?”

Thomas sniffed. His nostrils were moist from the burn. “I wasn’t prepared.” 

“Does such an excuse exist for an assassin?” Daud asked. In one of his hands was the second glass Thomas had failed to consume. “Drink up, Thomas,” Daud said, and then offered it to him.

Thomas shook his head. “You win.”

“This isn't a competition,” Daud said.  “Drink up, take a seat, and I’ll see if there’s anything worth listening to.”

Thomas was not a prideful man, but when Daud offered the drink he snatched it right away and immediately brought it to his lips. Daud said nothing and quietly made his way to the audiograph player. Thomas nursed on his whiskey, his tongue and nostrils taking in the aromatic spices as he meandered to a nearby chair. His cheeks were warm. It surprised him how jovial he’d been just a few minutes ago, only to now regret having failed in front of Daud. Music began playing the background. It wasn’t the same music that had filled the apartments the past few days, not the festive Serkonan or lighthearted Morley music that played throughout the night. It was soft, slow, easy to ignore if Thomas chose to. He bit the glass before taking another gulp. He let the liquid settle in his mouth until it burned before swallowing.

The decaying ceiling above provided Thomas with a wonderful view of the cloudy sky. Though the average citizen considered the Flooded District a testament to man’s misspending, Thomas thought the ruins left behind held a natural beauty. When the sky wasn’t thick with fog it was blue and crisp and clear and free of smog and smoke from the textile and manufacturing buildings. At night it was filled with stars that offered just enough light to lead the returning assassin home. Thomas leaned into his seat, stretched his legs out and took a final swig of his remaining whiskey.

Right now he was right where he wanted to be; reclined and appreciating the beauty of a decomposing building. After what felt like a lifetime of worrying over whether his brothers and sisters would survive the plague, after watching overseers and witches threaten their livelihood, and fearing for the Whalers, their home and their master, if that masked man would one day return and enact vengeance on Daud, take everything away from him, from all of them... after all of that Thomas could stare at the blue sky above, the light that broke through the cracks and stained the room with speckles of misshapen history, and fall in love with it. Thomas never said it, not in front of his men, and certainly not in front of Daud, but he had feared that the Whalers and the legends of the “Knife of Dunwall” would come to an abrupt end. There had been those sleepless nights, hours of wondering how it would all end. Would the guardsmen show mercy for the younger members? What about the Abbey? Would the women be spared? Thomas remembered surveying Brigmore Manor, fighting off cursed monstrosities, smashing their skulls underneath his boot and muttering silent prayers to himself, to Daud. His eyes stung with sweat and fear as he struggled between following after his master, or turning tail back to the Undine. Even now, with his legs spread and drunkenness taking hold, Thomas remembered that helpless feeling.

“It’s over,” he muttered, then placed the empty glass on the floor. “It’s finally over.”

“And what about now?” he heard Daud mutter softly. So soft it could have been one of the delicate melodies whispered through the audiograph. 

“Now?” Thomas asked. He hadn't thought about that. Cold wind blew inwards and relieved Thomas of his past anxiety. “I look forward to whatever fate has in store for us.” 

“That’s a fine way of looking at it,” Daud replied.

“You think so?” he asked.

“ _Fate_ ,” Daud said just before he turned away. First Thomas thought it was at nothing, or if Daud was staring at something it was his own past, or perhaps even the Void. But Daud looked in the direction of one of the windows, out at the crumbling buildings filled with assassins. Whalers playing card games and gambling their hard earned coin. Men and women sleeping on old stained mattresses, dreaming safely for once. “Better fate than the Outsider.”

The Outsider. It was a name Thomas hadn’t heard in awhile. Daud used to mutter the enigmatic figure’s name under his breath like some kind of spell, a curse he set upon his targets. Sometimes himself. It wasn’t too long ago when all Daud talked about was the single clue the Outsider left him. Now the Outsider was nothing more than a passing memory, a figure best left in the shadows.

Thomas expected more from Daud, especially after hearing the name being said after a long period of silence. Instead Daud walked over to the window, leaned his elbow against the wall before pulling a cigar out and began chewing lightly on the tip. He was fixated on the festivities going on outside, enamored by the alienness of relaxed Whalers, _happy_ Whalers. The music continued to play and the clouds filled the skies above, dimming the natural light that filled the room, all except the light around Daud. It was getting darker, but the light around him held on.

Thomas was drawn to it. Within him was the strong desire to get closer, almost an instinct to be near his master, to be near that light that he always suspected was there, and so he vanished from his seat in a burst of smoke, traversing across the room and right behind Daud. He stupidly raised his hand, ready to touch the nape of his master’s neck, only to have Daud turn suddenly and grab it by the wrist. The cigar fell and hit the moist floor of the chamber with a soft, barely audible thud. Their eyes met, and for some reason Thomas hoped the look in his eyes, the downward turn of his lips might ease Daud to let go and welcome him. It didn’t. No amount of partying could soften the art of a skilled assassin. The grip around Thomas’ wrist was a firm enough rejection. It was that sort of response that Thomas expected from his master, and it was also that honed skill that kept Thomas bottling the feelings inside of him. Whether it was out of desperation, the alcohol or foreknowledge that he would ultimately never be allowed another opportunity, Thomas refused to back off. He pushed against Daud and kissed him on the lips. 

Thomas’ hand clung to the wall.  Daud’s lips were like the whiskey and cigars he smoked: bitter, strong and flavorful. Any other day and Thomas would have immediately pulled away, a typical Gristol man incapable of appreciating such intense flavors. Daud let go of Thomas’ wrist. It was only for a second, maybe a little longer, but for Thomas it was an eternity. He slid his hand up, barely coming into contact with Daud’s chest. His fingers lingered on top of warm cloth. He couldn’t feel Daud’s heartbeat. He wished he did. Thomas wanted the pulse, the hesitation, Daud fighting to say something under his crushed lips, the struggle and defeat. To work his hand up and feel the older man’s neck, heated with adrenaline and whiskey. Touch the scars and wrinkles, testaments of his master’s age and skill. Feel Daud’s hair between his fingers. The second came to an end, and Thomas felt a hand firmly push against his chest. Reality struck him, and Thomas remembered his place. He quickly removed himself from Daud, covering his mouth as he shakingly backed away from his master. He was hesitant to wipe away the lingering taste that remained on his lips. Daud watched him, his eyes abundant with surprise from such a forceful kiss. Thomas looked away and cursed himself for letting it happen. 

“My apologies,” he heaved out. “I wasn’t thinking.” 

Thomas stood, lost, his shaking hand grabbing at his wrist. The same wrist Daud held a few seconds ago. The walls began to enclose around him. Though cold air blew in from the open ceiling, Thomas felt hot and uneasy. His stomach began to twist in a hot, sticky knot as he waited for his reprimanding.

He heard Daud sigh. “That’s alright, Thomas.” 

“Sir?” 

“I’ve dealt with a lot the past few days,” Daud replied, staring at the young man with a patience Thomas hadn't witnessed since he was first recruited into the Whalers. Those weary eyes weren’t a killers, but a teacher’s: calm, patient and understanding and, most of all, forgiving. “You kissing me isn't the worst thing I’ve experienced. Far from it.”

Thomas bit the inside of his lip. “Master Daud.”

Daud sighed again. “Thomas. _Relax_. That’s an order.” He moved and closed the dreaded space Thomas created when he had backed away. Daud approached it without any sort of hesitation. It was like the kiss never happened. But Thomas still felt the tickle, the memory laced across his own lips. Daud’s gloved hand reached out; a merciful offering for peace. “Better you get that off your chest now, while I’m at my most tolerant.”

Thomas sniffed. The inside of his nose was wet. The muscles in his throat constricted with shame and embarrassment. “Yes, sir.”

He blinked, felt a sharp sting in the corners of his eyes. When he opened he saw Daud in front of him, his hand still being offered to him. “Are you alright?”

Thomas could have very well broke down right then. He had every reason to. He was a Whaler, a killer trained by a legendary assassin, the “Knife of Dunwall,” and he had just finished pinning that man against a wall and kissed him. And he was rejected by that very same man. The same man who took him in, gave him a bed and roof over his head, a purpose and reason for existing. A family.

He choked out a laugh. “Yes,” he said. Of course Thomas knew it couldn’t end any other way. He foresaw it when he looked Daud in the eyes, those pale blue eyes, and he went ahead and kissed him anyways. He finally took Daud’s hand with his own. “I suppose it’s better to have tried and and failed, than to have kept it in any longer.”

Daud grabbed Thomas by the shoulder. It was so sudden, almost like the kiss before, and it frightened Thomas enough to try to pull away. But Daud held on to him, not easing his grip, and pulled the sensitive man closer to him. Thomas was scared, and his fear and confusion only grew as he moved closer to Daud, the pain in his chest bubbling and rising higher into his throat as Daud pulled him into an unexpected embrace. Daud quickly slapped his arms around Thomas, a hand rubbing his upper back that consoled and also trapped him. Thomas stifled a choke, bit the inside of his cheek till the pain echoed in his mind while Daud supported him.

“Whalers do not fail,” Daud said into his ear. “Thomas, you haven't failed. No, quite the opposite. Thomas, you did a good job.” 

The audiograph reached its end and hit the floor, causing Thomas to hesitate. The song was over and all that was left was the sound of the wind blowing into the Chamber of Commerce, the accompanying shake of the shutters and sound of Thomas’ beating heart smashing against his ribcage. “Daud?”

“Yes?” Daud replied. Thomas was sure Daud could feel his heart beating against him.

_If only this could last forever_. Thomas thought it over, wrapping his arms around Daud’s frame, savoring it as he understood it would, like everything else before, come to an end. It took everything and more to convince himself that it was for the best, asserted that an embrace like this only came once in a lifetime. The whiskey swirled in his mind, but Thomas made an effort to memorize his arms around his master, the feel of Daud’s hands against his back.

Tears ran down Thomas’ heated face as he looked up at the darkening sky and whispered, “Thank you.”

* * *

 

Warm sunlight hit the inside of the chamber, splashing over Thomas’ eyelids and stirring him awake. His head stricken with a dull pain from last night’s drinking, Thomas turned on his side, doing his absolute least to avoid any potential consequences for his lack of enthusiasm towards facing the day. His face rubbed the soft fabric of the pillow, and his hands clung greedily to the cool sheets. Normally the beds in the district harbored a mild dampness to them, but between his fingers they felt dry and warm and crisp and clean. He let exhaustion consume him and pull him back into a deep slumber.

Sounds of wood and rusted metal creaking under the heels of worn boots. Men and women dressed in soft leather, coaxing each other awake with the reminder of work. Assassins lept across the top of buildings, some relying on skill alone, others on the gift their master had bestowed. Discarded bottles were picked up from within apartments, dirtied cloth and plates with stale food left on tables and the floors were collected and disposed of. Water was offered to those who suffered from the effects of drinking too much. Rooms were cleaned, and floors were swept.

Thomas rolled out of bed a few hours later, shaken awake by heavy bodies landing on top of the chamber’s delicate rooftop.

When they told him only Daud was missing, Thomas wanted to assume that their master was out on another solo mission, perhaps doing recon on a target. He knew that wasn't the case. A quick investigation of the chamber unfolded the final events leading to their master’s disappearance. Daud’s chest wasn't empty, but _it was_ unlocked, and there was evidence that sheets had been moved around. Further inspection of the resting quarters indicated some clothes and books, along with a few trinkets that once adorned the room, were missing. Thomas slowly made his way down the stairs, his mind a fog until he remembered the sounds of coins. Before Thomas walked into the chamber, Daud had been counting coins.  It never once occurred to him that Daud might have dreams outside the high stone walls of Dunwall, beyond the cold shores and pebbled beaches.

Thomas circled the inside of the chamber, always finding new things to pick up. He put away books that Dimitri had hastily pulled from the shelves, sheets of paper that Rulfio or Christopher picked up and left behind, knives that Aleksander tossed in anger. He stopped at the desk cluttered with the notes of Daud’s greatest assassination. On the floor, on top of the map of Dunwall tower, was a collection of runes and charms that his master left behind. Not the entire collection, but enough to send a powerful, _decisive_ message. As the four gathered in hushed whispers, arguing over how to go about explaining their findings to the other members, Thomas knelt down and admired the pile of charms and runes decorated with the Outsider’s mark.

He picked up a rune and held it firmly in his naked hands, his fingertips sliding on top of the smooth bone as he recalled the stories Daud told him of his time spent chasing after these artifacts. All throughout the Flooded District were hidden charms and runes placed within close proximity of makeshift shrines, tributes adorned by Daud to the Outsider. Thomas rested his palm against the cool bone, and for the first time in a long while he allowed himself to express some fear. “It really is over, isn’t it?” 

Thomas lifted his head, up at the open crevice and at the pleasant afternoon sky. It’s over. Daud left the Flooded District, taking only what was most important to him, and that wasn’t the runes or charms he had amassed over the years, his weapons or his title, but just the coin he had and a few pairs of clothes. It’s finally over. Daud was gone. Thomas clenched the rune tightly in his hands,  wondering what he would do now that his master was gone. What would he do and where would he go, now that it was all over? He let out the trapped air in his lungs, and under the shiver of his own breath the answer to his question came and went, taking with it all the fear that he had within him. _It was over._

Like Daud, Thomas would leaves things to fate and the way of the soul.

**Author's Note:**

> As with most of my writings, this was a fun experiment. Certainly more challenging than what I'm used to working with. While I can understand that my version of Thomas might not agree to all readers, I do hope I've done him enough justice to create an enjoyable character. 
> 
> A huge thanks to fellow writer fowo. You always put some time aside for me and my ramblings. Thanks you for being patient with this work, offering your services and editing it.


End file.
